


I'm Always Here

by Space_and_Thyme



Series: You Are My Lucky Star [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2017, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Infinity War never happened, Life Model Bucky Barnes, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Nude Modeling, Oil Painting, Recovery, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-06 15:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16390691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: It's a few months after Bucky's return from Wakanda, and although all the triggers have been remove from his head, the damage is still done. When Bucky wakes up depressed, Steve does his best to take care of his lover, without pressuring him. He knows that Bucky will make it back to him, eventually.When Bucky wakes up one morning feeling better, he makes a decision to help pull himself out of the depressive episode, the best way he knows how. Modelling for his boyfriend's next painting.





	I'm Always Here

_March, 2017._

Steve should have expected it – honestly he’d known Bucky almost all of his life, even with their years separated. He _knew_ Bucky, and he knew what the man had been through. He knew that the days moving forward could continue to be difficult, and more importantly he knew his partner from before the war. He knew how Bucky was – and how Bucky tended to suffer. He also knew that Bucky would, in those days, put up a front and resolutely hide what he was going through, because all that mattered was Steve’s health and safety. And, since those bouts tended to go hand in hand with the same times that Steve’s health faltered in the winter, well, Bucky had become very adept at hiding it.

 

Truth be told, no one but Steve could see through that mask – through the bright smiles and teasing laughter. But Steve had lived with Bucky, and loved him, for so long that he saw the cracks. He saw the slump in his shoulders when Bucky thought that he was unobserved. Steve saw the lack of light flickering in those beautiful grey eyes. He saw the weight of ages sitting on Bucky’s proud shoulders, and nothing that he did seemed to help.

 

Bucky had always been susceptible to a fluctuation of moods – and had long hidden it so well that Winnie and George Barnes had thought that their son had grown out of his boyhood sullen streaks.

 

Steve had understood, after a couple of years witnessing the pattern when they were still children that Bucky’s low points tended to follow with the seasons. It was confirmed when they lived together, even though Bucky always projected brightness around him – like he was trying to be the sun for Steve – the sun that he himself couldn’t see or feel in the world.  

 

Steve understood now that Bucky suffered from Season Affective Disorder – a lower level depression which he’d long pushed himself through harder than he should have. Some years were better than others – some years he didn’t seem to suffer much at all. 1936, for example, had been a better year – and Steve suspected that was because Bucky had spent much of November (when it usually started to affect him) and December, both modelling for Steve, and planning their first Christmas that was just the two of them.

 

So when Steve woke up snuggled into Bucky’s side a month and a half after the man’s return to him from his time in Wakanda, he should have been expecting the shift. But it had come so truly out of left-field, and they’d been so happy to see each other and share memories and get to know each other all over again, that the sudden shift had come as a surprise.

 

Steve had woken up, as he had almost every morning since Bucky had waltzed into his – their – apartment, with his cheek resting on Bucky’s clavicle, with Bucky’s warm right arm draped around his shoulders. He’d started the day the same as he had every other morning – keeping his eyes closed as he slowly drifted into waking reality, and drinking in the soft scent of Bucky’s bare skin with each inhale as he relaxed against the encompassing warmth of his lover. He’d turned his head slightly, nuzzling into the crook of Bucky’s neck, and began to sweetly brush kisses over the exposed flesh.

 

Unlike every other morning, Bucky had not responded to the soft kisses. Where he would normally hug Steve closer, shifting himself into Steve’s embrace, while humming a low sound of pleasure and consent at the soft touches, none of that happened that morning. The two of them normally greeted each morning, now that they were here together in the 21st century, the way that they had every Saturday that they both had off of work between 1937 and 1943. With sweet kisses, gentle touches and tender whispers that turned into trembling and passionate orgasms. It was _the best_ way to greet each new day, as far as Steve was concerned – the _only_ way to start everything off right.

 

But not that morning. That morning Bucky hadn’t responded. He’d simply stayed lying there, perfectly still, lost in his own head. Steve noticed immediately, because even on the rare occasions that he was the first to awake, Bucky would hum and cuddle closer with him as he slowly woke up to the gentle kisses. They always asked each other, that was their rule. That they always knew that the other was ready and willing. They always knew what non-verbal consent looked like with each other. Steve’s was a nod with a bitten bottom lip and stroking his hand over Bucky’s cheek or shoulder – or through his dark hair. Or, it was the specific sequence of touches that they had developed as a non-verbal language – to ask for, and give, consent in silence. With Bucky, non-verbal consent was a deep hum of pleasure with a snuggled embrace or an arch of his spine. But, always, _always_ , with a hum of pleasure and assent.

 

That morning there was no hum of pleasure, and Steve immediately stopped ghosting soft kisses over his lover’s warm flesh.

 

“Hunny?” His voice was worried as he pushed himself up slightly, to look down at Bucky.

 

Lying with his head on the pillow, long hair fanned out like an ebony halo, Bucky stared almost sightlessly into oblivion. He was breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the beating of his heart assuring Steve that he was alive and awake. But his face was so devoid of emotion that it set chills into Steve’s blood. He’d seen Bucky, honestly, at his very worst… and he’d never seen _that_ look before.

 

“Buck?” He hedged again, and this time the grey eyes slid back to gaze at him, though Bucky didn’t turn his head. But at least the man was listening.

 

Steve swallowed tightly – wanted to stroke that one lock of dark hair back off of Bucky’s forehead, but wouldn’t risk the tentative balance that was between them. “Hunny… what’s…”

 

Bucky simply turned his eyes away again, gazing towards the wall unseeing.

 

Steve stayed silent for a moment, and shifted slightly. All he wanted, now that he started to realize what was going on even with his sleep-fogged mind, was to wrap his arms around Bucky and hold him close so that the man knew he wasn’t alone. But, the _old_ Bucky, back before the war, would have allowed himself to be held… Steve didn’t know this new Bucky well enough to leap to that conclusion. Instead, he swallowed a little tightly around the lump of worry that was forming in his throat. “Can I…” he gestured at Bucky’s side. “Can I cuddle you?”

 

Bucky merely nodded his head in silence, and lifted his arm for Steve to duck under again. Once Steve had settled down against the mattress again, Bucky lowered his arm so that it draped loosely and heavily over Steve’s shoulders. Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s naked torso, and nuzzled his way into the warm crook of Bucky’s neck. It wouldn’t go any further, and Steve was fine with that – he was adamant not to push. He just desperately wanted to hug his lover, hoping the embrace would help dispel the funk that had settled over him, though he knew better.

 

It lasted like that for three months.

 

Three months in which Bucky had all but reverted into himself, as his voice remained mostly silenced. There were days that Bucky never left their bed for any reason beyond bathroom trips. There were days that he never ate, no matter how Steve nudged and begged for him to eat something, _anything_. Steve _knew_ that they shared a similarly enhanced – increased- metabolism which meant that Bucky _had_ to constantly eat large meals and heavy amounts of protein to keep his body going. Bucky constantly refuted, stating that HYDRA hadn’t been feeding him like that, even while he was awake from Cryo, and he’d managed just fine. Steve had wanted to argue that _he_ wasn’t HYDRA, but he knew it wouldn’t help the situation.

 

What he had to do, was let Bucky find his way back on his own. Steve had suffered enough dark days on his own, just from the PTSD following the war – following the loss of Bucky – to know that Bucky was suffering in a dark shadowed land within his own head. He couldn’t imagine how bad it must be for his beloved – who had lived through more than Steve had, and who was already susceptible to his own sullen streaks. What kept him going was the knowledge that it _would_ pass, that eventually Bucky would make it back out of misery that he was suffering silently through. That eventually his beloved would find his way back to Steve, and Steve would be there, always, to help him and welcome him.

 

He only wished, purely for Bucky’s sake, that the storm would pass sooner rather than later. He hated witnessing his strong and powerful beloved being devoured from the inside by something that he couldn’t protect him against. Steve had always hated being unable to help Bucky – to do for Bucky what Bucky _always_ did for him. It killed him knowing that he couldn’t save him, that Bucky had to do it himself.

 

And, if he was being honest, the less honorable side of Steve’s mind wanted Bucky to recover quickly, because he greatly missed their intimacy. Now that he’d had the taste of Bucky Barnes back in his life – back in his _bed_ , he missed it. As much as he wanted to deny the selfish side of him, part of the reason he wanted Bucky to come out of the darkness again, is so that he can shower him with kisses, and licks, and tender touches until Bucky is a whimpering mess absolutely _begging_ for release beneath him.

 

But while he was like that, Bucky did not want to be touched. He tolerated Steve’s arm draped over his waist at night, just as he tolerated Steve wrapping his arms around him and all but crawling into his lap to hug him in Brooklyn all those years back. He _tolerated_  being touched with gentle affection, but he did not seem to enjoy it. And, most certainly, he did  _not_ permit touches of any sexual nature. Steve understood that just fine, and he acquiesced without argument – he would _never_ push Bucky passed what Bucky wants. He would never lay his hands on him if Bucky didn’t want it, even if touch is half the way Steve knew how to comfort the man. He only knew that he was allowed to put his arm around the man at night, because he made sure to ask him every night. And though Bucky didn’t answer verbally, he _did_ always give a curt nod of assent. Because as much as Bucky did not want to be touched, and only _just_ tolerated the way that Steve held onto him at night, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t segregate himself from Steve by sleeping on the distant edge of the California King mattress. He _allowed_ himself to be held in the warm divot in the centre of the large bed.

 

In this way, this vague and bleak way, December slid into January, and January melded into February before eventually fading into March.

 

March, that last bitter month of Winter’s cling, while Spring starts to take hold. In like a lion, and out like a lamb, as the old saying went.

 

Steve knew it would pass – it always passed. But the dark cloud had hunger over Bucky for so long this time, and so much _worse_ than Steve had ever witnessed it, that sometimes it seemed as though this was simply the way life was going to be lived from now on. To be honest, it didn’t matter to Steve – because no matter what, he still _had_ Bucky back in his life. Even if he _was_ a shell of his former self, and even if the closest they ever came to be, was lying together at night.

 

March had come in like a lion, that much was certain. A hostile and unforgiving storm raked across the state. It slammed them with snow, and then with freezing rain – the storm of a century, or so the local news was calling it. It had lasted nearly a week – though at that point it was unlikely to be the same storm, but rather several storms following on the heels of each other. The ice storm was what did it though – as the freezing rain lashed at windows, buildings, trees, and signs alike for three days straight. It sealed everything in a thick and crystalline layer of clear ice.

 

By the end of the first full week of March, the storm had finally eased its hold on the city. Friday, March 10th, dawned with pale golden light – a sign that Spring was well and truly on her way, even if Winter continued to grip the land for a while.

 

That beautiful soft golden light shimmered off the ice that encased the world, sparkled like a million cut diamonds in the early morning. As the light flooded in through the large window of their bedroom it wandered over Bucky’s face; warming the flesh that it fell over, and glimmering a soft but deep red in the depths of his dark hair. His brows furrowed slightly as he slowly drifted back to wakefulness.

 

As with most mornings in the last three months, Bucky awoke still lying perfectly still upon his back. Beside him, Steve was curled in on himself – his knees brought impossibly up towards his chest in a fetal position as he rested fitfully with his head cushioned on the far peak of Bucky’s fleshy right shoulder, while his own right arm rested tentatively over Bucky’s waist. Bucky eyed the man for a moment – it had been _a long_ time since he awoke before Steve. Where it had once been common place, and had again when this particular bout of crushing _nothingness_ had started, he’d since grown to sleep for inordinate lengths. And, Steve had taken to waking up early enough to slip out of bed, so that he didn’t disturb Bucky any longer than he need to – for god’s sake, the man had even offered to take the guest room so that Bucky could sleep on his own as he pleased, without him. Bucky hadn’t wanted that though, he’d non-verbally demanded that Steve stay with him.

 

But all of that being true, meant that for the first time since this had really started, he saw how Steve was keeping himself close enough to feel Bucky, but far enough to give Bucky his space. Bucky’s brows furrowed – he could clearly _see_ that his lover was uncomfortable – in the tightness of his fetal position, in the distance he kept – in the fact that while Bucky had stated that Steve could continue to sleep with his head on his shoulder, that he did so as far away as he could – so the sharp peaks of Bucky’s bones under his flesh would press painfully into Steve’s cheek, all so that Bucky didn’t feel … crowded. Trapped. And he sighed softly to himself.

 

It was beginning to pass. While it wasn’t a miracle – he hadn’t woken up suddenly recovered (unlike how he’d suddenly woken up miserable those months back) – it was a solid beginning. Dragging his free hand, the metal one, over his face slowly as he worked himself back awake. Resting back on the pillows for a long moment, just staring up at the ceiling as he listened to Steve’s shallow breathing, he realized that Steve was only just _barely_ asleep – still listening and waiting for Bucky to make a sound – ready and willing to do whatever he could.

 

The guilt gnawed at Bucky’s heart, and he realized that the apathy of the last three months was passing. There was guilt to be felt – even though he’d done nothing intentionally hurtful to Steve. He’d _never_ do anything to hurt Steve, and while he knew that Steve wouldn’t blame Bucky for any of it… he still understood that his behaviour had been cold and somewhat abrasive. He slid his right hand slowly up Steve’s arm, trying to avoid moving his shoulder too quickly and knocking Steve out of his tentative slumber. As his warm hand reached Steve’s upper arm, he pulled the man closer, forcibly tucking him in against himself, as he turned his head towards him. He pressed a soft and lingering kiss against Steve’s forehead, just below his hairline. He stayed there for a time; lips brushing against Steve’s warm skin, as his nose remained buried in his golden hair. Finally, Bucky eased away, and slowly slid his shoulder out from under Steve’s head – absentmindedly making sure that there was a pillow for Steve to rest on as he did so.

 

Rolling out of bed, Bucky stretched himself out slowly, and his spine shifted back into alignment with a barely audibly _shlink!_ He ran his fingers back through his hair, combing out the slight tangles, and finally rose to his feet. He cast one look back at Steve over his shoulder – and witnessed the beauty of the early morning sunlight illuminating his Golden Boy. He smiled slightly, tiredly, before he padded out of the room on quiet feet.

 

The least he could do, was let Steve sleep for a while longer.

 

The smell of coffee wafted towards Steve, and slowly brought him to wakefulness. He stretched out slowly – and paused with a flash of terror flooding through him when he realized that the bed was empty beside him. Swallowing tightly, he pushed himself up on the mattress, and turned his head towards the nightstand on his side of the bed. Sitting there was Steve’s favourite mug, steaming happily. In front of it was a tented piece of paper that simply read _Steve. x._ on it. Brows furrowing slightly, Steve leaned over and picked up the note. Thumbing it open, he looked down at the simple note in Bucky’s clear writing:

 

_Steve, went to take a shower. Enjoy your coffee._

_~Bucky_

His heart leapt into his throat, skipping a beat before it started thumping loudly. Through the far wall of their bedroom, he could just barely hear the shower running, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a slight smile pulled at his mouth.

 

Maybe, just maybe, they were going to be okay.

 

 Steve didn’t see Bucky for most of the day, and although that wasn’t uncommon, he had still _hoped_ after waking to Bucky’s note and a cup of coffee made the way he liked it that things might have changed a little. But it proved to be like any day – Bucky remained in their bedroom for the better part of the morning, before finally emerging around noon. Even if all he did was transfer himself from their bed and onto the couch, Steve tended to count that as progress. Because it was – it was better than the days that Bucky never left their bed itself.

 

So, Steve was understandably surprised when Bucky walked out of their bedroom and into the living room, still in the middle of the morning. Not only that, but rather than being bundled up in the baggiest hoodie and pyjama bottoms that he could find, he was wearing a newer pair of slim-fitted joggers, and nothing else.

 

“Stevie?” Bucky unconsciously licked his lower lip before worrying it between his teeth. His hair was hanging around his shoulders – clean and fluffy without the weight of sweat and grease.

 

Steve, hearing his name, looked up. His breath caught slightly in his throat, and he was unable to find his voice for a moment. As the silence stretched on a second too long, he saw Bucky’s brows furrow – still unsure of himself. And Steve sprang back into action. He closed his mouth, only now realizing he’d been staring with a gaping expression, and cleared his throat slightly. “Yeah, Buck?” he swallowed tightly.

 

Bucky lifted one hand and rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in a beam of sunlight filtering in through the large windows. “I um…” his words seemed to fail him for a moment, and his brows furrowed, but the expression shifted from unsure to confident.

 

He licked his lips again, and lifted his grey eyes to meet Steve’s gaze. “Stevie. Get your paints.”

 

It was the most like himself he’d sounded in months, and the quietly confident authority that came with those words, made Steve’s heart grow in his breast.  

 

“Buck…”

 

“Stevie, _please_. Just… get your materials. I’m going to… I’m going to go stand by the window in that sunbeam.”

 

“I don’t understand…”

 

Bucky shrugged his shoulders lightly as he walked to the place he’d indicated, and pushed his joggers slowly down his hips before he stepped out of them, leaving him completely naked in the early spring sunlight. Steve’s mouth ran dry as he watched the relative ease that Bucky manoeuvred himself – it was at such odds with the minimal and jerky movements that had filled the last three months. But mostly his mouth ran dry at the way the soft gold light flooded over Bucky’s pale olive-toned skin.

 

It was like those days long gone in the life drawing studio of his college in Manhattan – where Bucky had glowed such brilliant warm hues like the sun itself under the gaze of the photographer’s lamps. But it wasn’t the same – the natural light of the sun washed over his bare skin and illuminated his natural flesh tone – making the soft pink-gold colour glimmer brightly, until the light hit his STARK TECH titanium arm and sparkled like silver fire. Like a bolt of lightning – as though he was Zeus, wielding the power of the Gods – and perhaps he was. Perhaps Bucky, of all the men that Steve had known in his life – even against Thor – perhaps Bucky was the greatest example of a God in human form. Rather, perhaps he was the best example born of humankind, of what a God _should_ be. Loving. Kind. Powerful. Protective. Flawed – perfectively imperfect. A man who, despite all the pain and suffering, remained good and caring in his heart of hearts. Perhaps he was the best.

 

Perhaps those were only the romantic ramblings of Steve’s besotted heart.

 

“I don’t really know either…” Bucky shrugged easily and worried his lip a little. “What I _do_ know… is that I want to do this. I need to – I just… I need let my mind go completely,  _blessedly,_ blank for a while, Sweetheart. So … can we do this? Can I stand here while you paint me? Please?”

 

Steve had never been able to truly say no to Bucky, and least of all when he asked so innocently. And, his heart had leapt at the easy utterance of _Sweetheart_. When he finally found his voice, he nodded. “Of course, Buck… okay, I’ll… I’ll be right back” He smiled as he got up from the couch, and disappeared into the hall, going into the guest bedroom where he was keeping his art supplies. A few moments later, he returned with a short easel, a canvas, and a kit of oil paints and brushes. He set the easel up with the canvas, and set the paints on the floor beside it, before filling a container with water, and dragging a stool from the kitchen over to the easel, even as Bucky quirked a brow at him.

 

“Are you going to be comfortable enough?” Bucky eyed the stool with a slight hint of worry.

 

Steve nodded without thinking. “I’ll be fine… will you?” he glanced up. “If the sun gets too hot on your shoulder,” he made the point of _not_ stating that he meant the scarred shoulder. “tell me, okay?”

 

Bucky nodded his head as he gathered his dark hair back into his hands and smoothed it out as though he was going to tie it back while he shifted his weight back and forth onto his feet, as though he was grounding himself. After he’d settled himself on his feet, his weight on his heels, he released his hair, letting it settle back over his shoulders. “How do you want me?”

 

“Uh…” Steve paused, before he peeked out from behind his canvas. “I… hadn’t thought that far.” He laughed nervously.

 

Bucky nodded quietly. “Okay…”

 

“Maybe… Maybe…” Steve furrowed his brows before he spoke up again. “You look like Zeus… Maybe you could – no, actually I don’t like that.”

 

“Okay…?” Bucky blinked slightly.

 

“You know… I … I loved that painting I did in ’36 – when you nearly overloaded all of Red Hook.” Steve laughed slightly. “Would… would you mind just…”

 

“Contrapposto, again?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, but clear.

 

Steve sighed softly in relief. “Yeah.”

 

Bucky nodded. “Of course.” He titled his head back and forth, cracking his neck, before he shook himself out – loosening his body and relaxing muscles that had been tense for weeks. After a moment, he shifted his weight, and took on the general stance of Michelangelo’s _David_ again.

 

Steve almost wanted to cry – not from sadness, but the surge of love that thrummed through him. That even like this – even when he wasn’t himself – Bucky was _still_ willing to model for him. Still willing to do anything that Steve asked – still willing to be moulded under Steve’s direction.

 

The words slipped from Steve before he could stop himself. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too.” Bucky’s voice was gentle – but not in the way of the sadness – only that it was quiet in a way that fitted with the action of modelling. That their current circumstances were ones for gentle tones, not voluble speech.

 

The peace settled over them, and Steve set about mixing paints, until he found the peach-pink soapstone colour for the undertones of Bucky’s flesh. He set about painting.

 

The hours slipped by in quiet ease, as the two of them existed in each other’s sphere, fully, for the first time in months. Conversation was minimal, but they were comfortable in its absence.

 

Steve looked up from the painting and to Bucky, before his brows furrowed slightly. He looked between the canvas and his model again, multiple times. He spotted the discrepancy, and he bit his lip slightly. Bucky had shifted, not that Steve blamed him at all, sometime in the last two hours. He’d settled back slightly, and it had changed the general posture of his figure.

 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky had seen the look on Steve’s face, and the way he kept looking between him and the canvas.

 

“Nothing.”

 

Bucky quirked a brow. “Uh-huh…”

 

“It’s just… you moved a little and…”

 

“Oh! Sorry, how was I –“

 

“Can I just—“ Steve gestured to Bucky, who stood only a short distance from him.

 

Bucky frowned slightly, but nodded his head. “Yeah, of course.” He gave his permission for Steve to move him as was needed.

 

Steve paused, licking his lips before carefully placing his hands on Bucky’s hips. His touch was light, cautious, as his thumbs automatically settled on the peaks of Bucky’s hipbones. He swallowed tightly, lifting his eyes from Bucky’s lower abdomen and up to his face – only to find Bucky’s grey eyes focused on him – his expression soft and on the very edge of being a smile. It gave Steve a little boost of confidence, as he carefully shifted Bucky’s pelvis, until the man moved back into the stance he’d been in at the beginning of the session.

 

“There, I think that’s it.” Steve hazarded a timid little smile, before letting go of Bucky, and hiding behind his canvas again. When he looked back out again, he suddenly flushed pink, even into the tips of his ears. His hands had had paint on them when he touched Bucky – there were multi-coloured fingerprints decorating his pale flesh – with two proud thumbprints framing his pelvis.

 

Bucky had _obviously_ noticed – it was evident in the little smirk that he couldn’t keep off of his face. Oh, he _definitely_ knew how to make this into a game – one he wanted to play. “If I do it again, just move me, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

 

“If you’re sure…?” Steve worried his lip slightly.

 

“I’m sure, Stevie.”

 

He waited forty-five minutes before acting out. Between Steve looking at him, and turning back to his canvas, Bucky settled again, slipping out of the stance that Steve had put him into. He fought back the urge to grin.

 

When Steve spotted the shift, he frowned slightly. He paused, worrying his lip a bit, before he set his brush and palette down beside himself and hesitantly reached out – once again laying his hands over Bucky’s hips and shifting him back into the perfect contrapposto pose. If only he’d looked up this time, he’d have seen the man grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary.

 

Bucky waited thirty minutes the next time, and it took everything he had not to chuckle when Steve appeared slightly irritated this time. Never at Bucky, only that he needed to re-position him again.

 

The third time, was twenty minutes later.

 

This time, Steve spoke while he shifted Bucky’s hips easily – no longer questioning if Bucky minded the touch or not, only because Bucky hadn’t said anything _and_ had given him standing permission. “Do you want to stop? Need a break?” he carefully pulled Bucky’s hips forward.

 

“No.” The smile was evident in Bucky’s voice.

 

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind if you can’t keep the –“ Steve glanced up, and finally caught the feline grin on Bucky’s face – the mischievous glint in his silver eyes. His jaw dropped in shock. “Are… are you doing this _on purpose_!?” Steve gasped, though he saw the humour in it.

 

Bucky burst into laughter, unable to stop himself – it felt _so good_ to laugh like that again. Steve’s hands were still on his hips.

 

“Oh my _God_! You _are_! BUCKY!” Steve barked a laugh. “Why?!”

 

Bucky shrugged his shoulders easily. “The first time it was an accident, I swear… but.” He bit his lip and worried it between his teeth, even as he grinned a little sheepishly. “I kinda liked the attention…”

 

“The atten—you mean… me moving you around?” the pink flush flared in Steve’s cheeks slightly.

 

“Mmhmm…” Bucky hummed softly in agreement. “And your hands on my hips... I kinda like the fingerprints.” He smirked.

 

Steve’s heart was pounding in his breast. Thrumming with love and relief – to hear Bucky so at ease was the best gift he could ever be given – even if it wouldn’t last. For right now, Bucky had regained himself – regained his sense of humour and playfulness.

 

Steve couldn’t stop himself. With his hands still on Bucky’s hips, he leaned in and turned his face, so he rested with his cheek against the firm flat plane of Bucky’s lower abdomen. He closed his eyes, just focusing on the warmth he leaned against. “Thank you.” And he meant it – but what he’d wanted to say was _‘I missed you…’_

 

Bucky lifted his right hand and carded his fingers back through Steve’s silky, golden, hair. “Hey…” Bucky scratched lightly at Steve’s scalp as his lover held onto him like he expected Bucky to vanish, like fog beneath the blazing sun. “Hey… I’m right here – I’m _always_ here…”

 

Steve, eyes still closed and hands still gripping Bucky’s hips, turned his face back inward – lovingly nuzzling his lover’s abdomen – brushing his nose through the sparse dark hair that made up the fine trail that lead from Bucky’s navel down to the neatly groomed patch of pubic hair. He just needed to hold him – to nuzzle him like this – to show his love as he could. Because his throat was growing tight, and words were beginning to fail him.

 

Bucky’s hand softly caressed down Steve’s cheek, and slid under his chin. He tilted Steve’s jaw up a little, making the man titled his head back until he was looking up at Bucky’s face with wide and trusting cerulean eyes. His thumb was softly stroking over Steve’s plush lower lip.

 

“I _know_ it’s been hard, baby. I know.” Bucky’s voice was gentle and soft.

 

“No, Buck-“ Steve tried to shake his head slightly.

 

“No, it has… it’s been hard on me, and it’s been hard on you. I _know_ it has. But, thank you for stickin’ with me through it.”

 

Steve’s brows furrowed, “ _Always_ , Bucky… ‘til the end of the line, like we promised…” his hand lifted and he pressed Bucky’s palm in against his cheek carefully.

 

Bucky smiled softly, his thumb stroking now over the peak of Steve’s cheekbone. “Still… I know it’s not been easy, pal. So, thank you… but ya gotta promise me somethin’.”

 

Steve heard the slip back into the old Brooklyn cadence, and his heart sang a little. Still, he swallowed tightly. “Anythin’, Buck.” He couldn’t stop himself from falling back into the same speech pattern.

 

“Tonight, when ya put your head on my shoulder?”

 

He frowned, “Yeah?”

 

“Put it up by my neck, ya moron. Not on the peak – ain’t no way that’s comfortable.”

 

Steve snorted in surprise. “I didn’t wanna crowd ya-“

 

“Yeah, and I gave ya permission to put your head there so what’s your point?” Bucky’s dark brow cocked up as he smirked just a little.

 

Steve’s shoulders sagged a little. “I just wanted you to be as comfortable as possible, Buck.”

 

Bucky sighed softly and eased his grip on Steve. He lowered himself, slowly, until he was kneeling in front of Steve’s stool – gazing up into Steve’s face. He set his hands on Steve’s knees. “I know, baby, I know. But I promise ya, you’re never the problem, and certainly cuddlin’ me isn’t making me worse. If it’s too much, I’ll tell ya, alright?”

 

Steve nodded quietly.

 

“Alright.” Bucky nodded resolutely. “Now that that’s settled…” He pushed against Steve’s knees, stretching himself up until his lips met Steve’s in a firm kiss. Steve’s brows shot up as his eyes widened – as Bucky’s slid closed.

 

Steve sighed out softly through his nose, as he closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling of his lover’s mouth against his – stunned when Bucky’s lips parted slightly and the tip of his warm pink tongue licked at his bottom lip. Steve couldn’t help the tiny groan that slipped from him – and he felt Bucky grin briefly against his mouth.

 

Bucky’s flesh hand left Steve’s knee- skimming up his arm and around to his back, before he cupped the back of Steve’s neck, and pulled him closer into the kiss. Steve shivered as Bucky’s thumb continually rubbed circles against the back of his neck and their mouths glided warm and slick against each other.

 

When Bucky finally pulled back from the kiss – just a hair’s breadth – he pressed his forehead to Steve’s gently. His hand was still on the back of Steve’s neck, the other on his knee as he knelt on the floor of their living room in the sunbeam. “You can relax, Stevie… You’re not gonna lose me. I promise.”

 

Steve let out the shaky exhale he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His shoulders sagged as he relaxed, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and shoulders, as he hugged him tightly – pressing his forehead firmly against Bucky’s.

 

He hadn’t realized how much that fear was still gnawing at him – and while he knew that Bucky couldn’t possibly promise him that – couldn’t possibly know what could happen in their future – he _did_ trust that Bucky was telling the truth. That he would do whatever was in his power to stay with Steve.

 

And, it was more than he could ask for.

 

A few hours of peace and laughter – an ardent kiss that left his lips still tingling – they were worth the weeks of uncertainty. Because as long as Bucky made it back to him, Steve would weather whatever storm could possible come.

 

Because that’s what you do for love – you support and you shelter, even when the world feels like it is ending. You love without condition. And for two Brooklyn boys that had fallen in love as children, who’d loved each other before they knew what love really was, well… it was second nature.

 

Steve swallowed slightly, and wet his lips. He smiled teasingly, needing to push passed this emotional moment, if only to keep Bucky smiling the way he had been for the last two hours. "By the way..."

 

Bucky quirked a brow as he looked at Steve suspiciously. 

 

"Happy 100th birthday, old man." Steve grinned wolfishly. 

 

Bucky instantly punched him in the shoulder, albeit light enough not to do any damage. "Punk!"

 

Steve burst into laughter, and pressed a kiss to Bucky's forehead. 

**Author's Note:**

> So it's almost November, which means my own Seasonal Affective Disorder is starting to creep up on me. I felt like it was probably something not out of the question for Bucky to deal with. So... yeah that's why this happened. Granted this fic was worse than a S.A.D flare up for Bucky, the S.A.D flare up was just the basis, which was exacerbated by the other stuff that he's lived through. The man has pretty bad trauma, and well... just because he made it out and made it home to Steve, doesn't mean that everything is suddenly okay. That's not how trauma works. But, he's getting better. 
> 
> All of that being said, I didn't want to get too far into the depth of his depression - It's there, but I didn't feel going into the actual horrors of it was necessary. Suffice to say the boy really needed a day where he got to feel like his old self again.


End file.
